Potty training 101

Two weekends ago Mr. H was off celebrating his birthday in Scotland with his friends and my mother and I were camped out with both boys at home, hoping for a relaxing weekend filled with mild mannered children, naps and all day snacking. It was sweltering hot, though, the kind of hot that makes your thighs sweat and leaves you without anything to say because speaking takes effort and the heat we were experiencing had made us lethargic, aggressive and just plain cunty.

The unofficial rule at our house on days filled with insufferable heat is that pants are not required.  In fact, we encourage nudity, or at least as much we’re capable of with both neighbors having a direct view into our backyard, patio, and the entire first floor.  The neighbor part has never stopped me from meandering around topless, but usually I have a pump attached to my teets, making the vision entirely unappealing, if not disgusting, if you were to ask Mr. H.  The neighbors have learned by now to not look in my windows and only children are allowed outside with no pants on.

So there I was, filling the kiddie pool, setting up the sprinkler and blasting Sawyer in the face with water by allowing him to “help” “fix” the hose by pointing out the areas in which the hose was twisted and then telling him to take a sip of water while I untwisted the wrapped up parts.  Great, clean, parenting fun if you ask me. He squeeled each time, I laughed my ass off and we continued doing the same act over and over again for about ten minutes, mostly because he has the memory of a ladybug and because he trusts me and listens to what I say for the most part, in this case, most unfortunate for him.

After splashing around in the pool for a half hour with little relief, I took Sawyer’s diaper off, too lazy to run inside to get his bathing suit, thinking we could accomplish a few things: battle the heat wave, skip bath time, clean up lunch face, practice potty training if the situation arises, which I hear with boys is very convenient if you can start in the summer by allowing urination in the grass.

He wandered around the yard for over an hour with no incident, chasing his best friend Bull, trying to squirt my mother with the hose, helping wash the dogs and dragging around a rake before he got bored.  

I was pumping on the couch a few minutes later and looked outside to see him standing on the other side of the glass, tiny fists pounding the window yelling HEY hEY HEY, smiling from the other side. “Heeeeeeey!” I yelled back, just as he started to pee on the porch. 

I realized he had never seen himself pee by the look of horror and confusion that covered his face. He jammed his pudgy pointer finger in the stream of pee and then shrieked, I guess not realizing urine is liquid and his mouth dropped open and he held his finger in the air for me to see. He looked from his zucchini flower to me and then back again over and over, shouting uh oh uh oh uh oh ohhhhhh noooo and pointing to the new puddle on the patio. He look vaguely traumatized and I realized I had to behave like a parent and stop laughing like an asshole, even if just for a minute. 

“It’s ok, Soy, good job! Yaaaay Sawyer! you peed! That’s pee pee! Yaaaaay Soy! What a big boy!” I was using my best happy voice, clapping like a seal and giving a thumbs up and waving my hands wildly over my head. He smiled big and clapped his hands too, so proud of himself, now that he thought he did something worthy of attention. 

“Mom,” I yelled, “Sawyer peed on the porch. Could you come dump water on it?” I didn’t need him splashing around in it with his bare feet and getting urine all of his legs and the floor inside. He clapped and smiled as my mother dumped a big bowl of water on the pee puddle, forcing some of it through the cracks of the porch as she went back in the house.  I watched as Sawyer looked at the bigger puddle and then back to me, then cocked his head to the right, looked pained and pointed at me, yelling boobies. 
I looked down to see milk overflowing and squirting out of my pump setup and frantically started undoing my tubing and wiping the milk up shouting back, “ok, Soy, I told you not to make that face at me when you see Mommy’s boobies,” and sighed, knowing my almost 2 year old son is disgusted by my clam strip resembling nipples. He had stopped clapping and shrieking, though, so I looked up quickly to see what he was doing. 

There he was, on the other side of the glass on his hands and knees, face pressed firmly against the porch, casually lapping up diluted urine. 

“Oh my fucking God! NO! No Sawyer! Noooooo! STOP!” I was screaming and scrambling to put a shirt on. My mother, thinking he’s fallen off the porch comes racing around the corner, breathless and clearly Petrified shouting “what’s happened? Where is he?” Looking frantically outside. 

We both looked out the sliding glass doors, feet away from him, as I muttered “right there, licking up his own pee,” in the most defeated tone I had used yet as a parent. 

“It won’t be the last time,” she assured me as he sat up and waved at us proudly. Then he turned away again, slapped the pile of pee with his tiny, fat hand, threw his head back and giggled. 

And so here’s to those of us NOT raising future Nobel Peace Prize recipients.